


you're writing lines about me

by gurlsrool



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, TRK spoilers, idek what else, making out n dreaming shit n writing poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 09:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6653188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurlsrool/pseuds/gurlsrool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam kisses him. He doesn’t so much kiss him as drop all of his belongings onto the dreamt hardwood floor and close the dreamt door and press his lips hard against Ronan’s, which weren’t dreamt but have been dreaming about this so often since August that it’s close enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're writing lines about me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a halsey song. Some small spoilers from trk. It takes place the spring of Adam's freshman year of college. Tw for some strong language. Tht's abt it!!!!! This is written for the prompt Ronan Writing Gay Poetry that's basically all it is.

The first thing Ronan pulls out of what Henry has fondly nicknamed “Cabeswater 2.0” is a pencil. 

He doesn’t know why it comes to him, just that he wakes up one morning with sweat on his forehead and a small cylindrical piece of wood rolling between his fingers. He gets out of bed, makes a pot of coffee, seals the pencil in an envelope, and picks out a stamp with the moon on it. 

“What the hell is this?” Adam asks a few days later from capitol hill. Ronan’s tending to the trees surrounding the barns when he calls. He likes the way the air smells, the sound the branches make when they thunk to the ground, the feeling of Chainsaw spinning circles around his ears.

“Parrish,” Ronan grins, “That’s a pretty fucked up way to say thank you. Dick would be disappointed.”

He can hear Adam roll his eyes even over the phone and it feels like a punch to the gut, hearing the moment of faux disgust but not being able to feel Adam’s calloused hand swat his arm. “It doesn’t have an eraser,” he says.

“So don’t make mistakes,” Ronan shrugs. Adam doesn’t respond so he adds, “It’s for poetry.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s for poetry,” he repeats, “You’re just supposed to write not erase. Stopping to erase messes with your flow or whatever the fuck.”

“That sounds like a bad excuse for a broken pencil.”

“Maybe you’re just a bad excuse for a poet.”

“Yeah and what about you?”

“I’m Walt fucking Whitman.”

Adam laughs at that, something loud and genuine. Ronan likes how much he’s been laughing since they found Glendower dead and Gansey alive, since Cabeswater started regrowing from Ronan’s mind and Adam opened his Georgetown acceptance letter with his head in Ronan’s lap. 

“Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean-”

“Hey,” Ronan interrupts, “You really doubting me Parrish? You know I don’t lie.”

There’s a moment of mumbling and background noise on Adam’s end. Ronan examines a bird’s nest in a high up branch. The robin eggs are close to hatching. 

“Sorry about that. I gotta go,” Adam whispers a moment later.

“Yeah?” Ronan raises an eyebrow that Adam can’t see, “What’s Mr. President want now? A chai latte?”

“Mr. Congressman and I,” Adam corrects sharply but with no actual edge, “have a meeting and I should really get off the phone.”

“Ah Parrish,” he grins a smile Adam can’t see, “Making personal calls at work? I’m impressed. I’d be even more impressed if you called in sick this weekend. I can dream you a doctor’s note. Maybe something about throwing up blood or pissing it. Or both.”

“Oh Ronan,” he sighs and then just says, “I really do have to go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves a hand Adam can’t see and swallows. “Change the fucking country for me Parrish,” Ronan says.

“Write a poem for me Lynch,” Adam says and then the line goes dead.

He does. Or at least, he tries. He sits down at his dad’s desk with Adam’s old algebra notebook and a pencil that has an eraser and a blunt point. He stares at the blank paper, flips through the old pages. It’s mostly bullshit he doesn’t understand, wouldn’t even if Adam tried to explain it to him although that’s mostly because he’d be distracted by the sound of his Henrietta drawl. In the middle, he sees a different scrawl and stops turning the pages.

_Where’s Ronan?_

I don’t know

_He won’t answer his phone._

Am I supposed to be surprised by that?

The rest of the page is filled with a doodle of a snake wrapped around the sun that Ronan assumes is supposed to be of him. He pulls his phone out of his desk drawer.

“Well hello,” a voice on the other end grins, “Did you dial the wrong number?”

“Shut up shrimp. Where are you assholes now?”

“The world,” Blue says simply and he can practically picture her throwing her arms out, gesturing to the highway through the dream pig’s windshield wipers. “Where are you?”

“Same place but with less dick.”

“Hilarious. Any reason for this call Mr. Lynch?” He doesn’t have an answer. Really, he saw Gansey’s handwriting and remembered all the times he had seen the same font writing about ley lines and energy and magic and Welsh kings and sometimes, just Blue Sargent’s hair. He thought this would be a good idea for some reason.

“Is that Ronan?” he hears a voice mumble on the other end and then more clearly, “Ronan! Is that you?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s been awhile which really just means a fucking week, I get it, let’s skip the chit chat.”

“Well alright,” Gansey concedes, “What are we skipping to? Ronan? Can you hear me? Sorry I can’t talk louder, it seems Henry’s fallen asleep in the back seat again.”

“I’m worried Parrish won’t come back.” It’s out of nowhere into his head and out of his mouth and he knows it, almost regrets it when the words fall out. 

“Oh Ronan.”

“I just mean,” he inhales sharply, “This is Hell on Earth for him or whatever.”

“It is,” Gansey says, “But he’s grown up, you’ve got to tell your mind to catch up to the present,” he pauses, “You know, he got into Stanford. They gave him the dean’s scholarship I believe. That’s a very big honor.”

“He’s a fucking genius, I know that, what’s your point?”

“He said it was too far away,” Gansey says, “When I asked from what, he just smiled.” Ronan doesn’t say anything and for a moment they sit there, listening to the sound of each other breathing, “If you really are worried, you should tell him how you feel you know, communication, honesty, et cetera.”

Ronan stares down at the doodled portrait of himself. He assumes it was drawn by Gansey but he can see that Adam’s pen filled in some extra stripes on the snake’s head. He flips to an empty page, “Send me a postcard Richard.”

“I’ll address it to Satan’s basement,” Gansey says fondly and at that, Ronan hangs up, throws the phone back into the drawer, and is faced once again with the blank paper.

He closes his eyes, opens them, closes them, opens them and then he inhales one long breath and exhales it onto the paper. He thinks about the road. He thinks about sitting on his porch and staring at the street and seeing one or two cars drive by at 4 a.m. and wondering where they were going. He thinks about being one of those cars last year, St. Agnes always the final destination. He thinks about lines in hands that form crosswalks and corn fields and mountain ranges and road maps. He thinks about ravens that sing about marriage and doves that sing about death and small girls with big tempers and boys with heavy bags beneath wireframe glasses and hikes through rural Henrietta led by an artificial bee made from parts of his dad’s brain and curly hair always dipped in sunlight and a mouth similar to his framed by sharp dimples and fireflies. He thinks of his own mouth framed by Adam Parrish’s fingers and the edges of his five o’clock shadow. He thinks of gasoline. He thinks of Welsh kings.

He signs the letter “Your Fucking Whitman” and mails it before he can second guess himself. Then he falls asleep in the living room and wakes up holding a chunk of tree bark.

*

Adam Parrish arrives at his doorstep four days later. He’s holding a leather bag over his shoulder, car keys in one hand and a smudged piece of paper in the other. “You look like you’re seeing a ghost, man,” Adam says when Ronan opens the door, bare-footed and eyes wide.

“Bullshit. I never looked at Noah like this. What are you doing here?”

Adam shrugs. “I called in sick.” Ronan gapes. “Oh come on close your mouth. It’s an unpaid internship, one day won’t do much.”

“How’s congress going to run without you?”

Adam kisses him. He doesn’t so much kiss him as drop all of his belongings onto the dreamt hardwood floor and close the dreamt door and press his lips hard against Ronan’s, which weren’t dreamt but have been dreaming about this so often since August that it’s close enough. 

Adam pushes Ronan through the front hallway, into the living room, onto the couch, kissing him the whole way there. He stops with his legs wrapped around Ronan’s and his hands in his hair. “You haven’t shaved in awhile,” he whispers, pushing the short hairs on his scalp back, back, back.

Ronan shrugs, “It’s been a few weeks. I wasn’t expecting company.”

Adam raises an eyebrow and Ronan can see it, not just hear the pause and he breathes, breathes, breathes. “You would shave for me?”

“I already write you poetry. Why not go ten fucking yards?”

Adam presses Ronan’s lips against his again, again, again. “Your poem,” he whispers later, when they're catching their breath and Ronan’s using the newfound space between them to play with his hands. “There were a lot of eraser marks on it.”

“I make mistakes,” Ronan says through gritted teeth. Adam stops then and looks at him, eyes soft and careful. He pulls his hand slowly from Ronan’s and places it on his chest instead. He smiles.

“I liked it,” Adam whispers and kisses him once, twice, “I like you. I can’t say it in words and metaphors about blue herons and blood moons but,” he moves his hand up to Ronan’s face, traces a finger down his chin so lightly he can only feel the shadow of it on his skin, “I like you Ronan Lynch. I’m a bit put off by you comparing my voice to Julius Caesar’s twenty second stab wound but I like you.”

For the rest of the night, Ronan writes him more poetry with the palms of his hands, his fingers, his lips, his eyes, his quickening heart beat. This time, he doesn’t erase a single movement, lets every one pour from his body into the air into Adam, who reads the words diligently, like he did with every Shakespeare sonnet in lit class at Aglionby.

They finally fall asleep just before the sun rises, a pile of tangled soft limbs and chapped red lips and tender bruised necks. _“I like you,”_ Ronan hears the words over and over again, _I like you, I like you, I like you._ He repeats them to himself until they’re practically nonsense, repeats them to himself until his heart has slowed enough that he can finally slip into sleep. 

When he does, he dreams of flowers. They’re some dark purple mixture of roses and cacti and some plant he doesn’t know the name of, maybe because he made it up. They’re the size of disco balls and they smell like gasoline and he stares at them until he wakes up. When he does, he finds the flowers in one hand and Adam Parrish’s hand in the other.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hmu at gaysun on tumblr I cry abt the lynch brothers a whole lot. Also, send me prompts!!!


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